Live, die, something else lives. The very soil humanity walks upon is built up from death. Digging into a flowerbed means digging into bones.

Men die. It's practically what they're for.

I kept a picture of me kissing my dad’s corpse on the forehead in my wallet for years. I’d break it out any time someone showed me a baby picture, just so they would know how it ends.

We who think we are about to die will laugh at anything.

The idea of being strong for someone else having never entered their heads, I find myself in the position of having to console them. Since I'm the person going in to be slaughtered, this is somewhat annoying.

The dead, Your Honor, do not agonize over their crimes and do not long to be happy, as you know.